In graduate school, I would sometimes stake a challenge to my fellow writing students. It had not started as a challenge. Bookish and naive, I’d arrived at my American school eager to talk shop with likeminded writers. We would speak reverently of the musical prose of Toni Morrison; of the hypnotic work of William Gass, whose essays were lyrical marvels but whose fiction left us cold; of the shocking and beautiful violence in McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Inevitably, though, I would ask, Which of Mavis Gallant’s collections do you find her strongest? Or, do you think there’s an implicit dialogue between Patrick Lane’s and Lorna Crozier’s poetry? Or, have you read Richler’s last, Barney’s Version? The responses were always the same: a haze on the eyes, shuffling of feet, uneasy smiles. And finally the embarrassed question: Sorry, who?

It astonished me that so many of our writers could be so completely unknown to our nearest neighbours. These were educated people, immersed in literature; they could speak about the symbolism of chickens in a sonnet by Pablo Neruda, or recall the colour of Atzbacher’s coat in Thomas Bernhard’s Old Masters – people not unschooled in literary obscurities. And yet Canadian literature did not exist.

And so I started my challenge: All drinks on me if you can name 10 Canadian writers. Margaret Atwood, yes, Michael Ondaatje, yes, Alice Munro (wait, isn’t she from New York?), Anne Carson (no, she’s definitely not a Canadian!). But then a silence would fall across the table. And I would finger the bills in my pockets, feeling a little bit richer, and a little bit poorer.

In a present marked by the achievement of Canada’s first Nobel Prize in Literature, with Alice Munro’s recognition by the Swedish Academy last year, I feel fairly certain now that our international profile must be raised somewhat. Some future Canadian student studying at a foreign university might even lose her shirt, standing several rounds of drinks.

What fills me with the greatest hope for the future of our literature is what I see around me in the present: the incredible current of diversity. From experimental poetry to political novels, from spoken word to underground theatre, there is a dazzling variety of playful, serious art being produced. The greater our diversity, the stronger we become. I don’t know how this works, but I believe fiercely that it is so.

There is no progress in art, only the strange doubling-back upon itself that we think of as influence, and innovation, and rediscovery. Our future will be much like our past, in this sense, increasingly richer, perhaps, more layered, and ever more brilliant, but just as idiosyncratic and unpredictable.

The finest writing stands apart from the fashions of its time, without ignoring them. My prediction? We shall continue to produce writing of the highest calibre, writing that matters to us, precisely because it is about us, whether directly or indirectly. I cannot believe literature will ever grow obsolete, whether the technologies change or not. We are storytelling creatures. We may in the future be reading our great writers on screens (I suspect not), or composing our novels by social media and tweeting (I hope not), but the essential nature of the endeavour will not change.

To add your insights and ideas about Canada and the future, please tweet @torontostar #kendryden, or comment below the story at thestar.com/kendryden

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